The Hat
by Meb
Summary: My theory about why Roxton's hat is so special to him.


**Thanks to Elbie and Carolyn for their help**

"So what do you think?"

"I think you're crazy," she replied.

"Seriously?"

"Absolutely."

"Do you have a better idea," was his testy retort.

"I'm working on it."

"Well let me know when you're done working on it," Lord Roxton said as he charged the campsite of the native headhunters.

Marguerite blinked several times to assure herself that Roxton had indeed just gone running straight into the heart of the rustic village. _If we live through this I'm going to kill that man!_ With that satisfying thought, she checked her weapons and ran after him.

By the time she reached his side she had passed several wounded or unconscious headhunters, their painted bodies marking Roxton's trail more blatantly than broken twigs or footprints. She fired her weapon at a particularly persistent savage just as he was about to add Roxton's noble head to his collection. 

Roxton looked over his shoulder just as his latest foe fell to the ground with a thud. Smirking at her, he nodded his thanks and said, "So nice of you to join the party."

"This is the way the uppercrust of Britain entertain themselves," she asked as she dodged the ax of a short headhunter who seemed to have taken a liking to her long raven tresses. Breathing heavily, she kicked the man in the knee and grunted out, "Remind me never—" She paused to punch her attacker in the jaw, "—to attend any social functions at your manor." 

"Oh no, my dear. I have something else entirely different planned for you when we get back to London," he confided in her as he used the butt of his rifle to ram her short friend in the stomach, causing the man to double over in pain. "Something more private," he said as he wiggled his eyebrows at her.

__

This is insane! He's flirting with me as if we're not in the middle of a fight for our lives, Marguerite thought in awe. She was surprised by how much their suggestive banter lifted her spirits and made her feel completely safe even as headhunters were attacking from all sides. It shouldn't have surprised her though . . . this man always had that effect on her. 

He looked as if he were about to say something when a loud cry sounded behind him. Something hard hit the side of his face and he clenched his jaw trying to ignore the pain and come to terms with what just happened. _Damn it! I should have been paying more aware of the situation! Calm down_, he told himself, _you have more important things to worry about now_. Then he twisted around in time to drop the man who had whacked him with his club with one shot. "We'll have to continue this later," he informed her. "The natives are restless."

She rolled her eyes at his cheeky joke and they continued fighting side-by-side until the last man retreated into the jungle. Although most had cut their losses and faded into the dark landscape surrounding the camp, there were still a considerable number of headhunters lying prone on the hard ground. 

They shared a glance and she gave him a look as if to say, 'Hurry up and get what you've come for.' He smiled at her and her heart did a funny little flop as he moved towards the giant wooden statue at the far end of the camp. Using his rifle, he carefully reached up and lifted his hat off the top of the wooden god. Looking it over, he announced with pleasure, "Good as new!"

Marguerite was surveying the damage to her clothes and in a surly voice replied, "I wish I could say the same for me. I've ruined one of the last good blouses I have just so we could get that old tattered hat of yours."

Pulling it down over his dark hair, his eyes gleamed when he suggested, "Perhaps we could have Veronica make you an outfit."

"You wish," Marguerite muttered. "Really, what is your obsession with that hat?"

"It has sentimental value," he said vaguely. Trying to change the subject, he added, "It makes me look dashing, don't you think?"

"Oh incredibly," she said with sarcasm fairly dripping from her voice. "It also helps mask the insanity that shows clearly in your eyes. What were you thinking running in here like a madman just to get your hat?"

"Why Marguerite, is that concern I hear in your voice?"

"You could have gotten both of us killed," she stated in a more serious tone. "You may have a reckless disregard for your life but I think my hide is worth more than an accessory. So I ask you again . . . what is your obsession with that hat?"

He searched her face. What had he done right in a past life to be so fortunate as to have her in his life now? He crossed over to where she was standing and softly cradled her cheek in his callused hand. She leaned into his touch and he felt his heart swell with love and an incredible warmth spread throughout his body. He couldn't believe it was really her . . . that he was standing in front of her surrounded by beauty of the wild jungle and unconscious savages. _After all these years, I had almost convinced myself she was a dream and yet she's right here and she belongs to me._

Looking vulnerable—an expression that normally did not cross Miss Krux's features—she examined his rugged face. Not knowing the pain and doubt that were reflected in her eyes, she asked in a thick voice, "Did someone you love give it to you?"

"Give me what," he inquired in a husky voice. Her words had barely penetrated the rosy fog that was clouding his brain. 

"Your hat," she persisted in an anxious voice. 

He smiled at her question. _She has no idea . . ._ "Oh, yes," he whispered.

Marguerite tried to keep the hurt from showing. She had always been so curious about Roxton's past but now she was reluctant to hear about the gift-giver. His expression showed that the person still meant a great deal to him. Despite the possibility of being hurt even more, something compelled her to ask, "And you still love this person, don't you?"

He was leaning in closer. She smelled like home . . . his home, his peace, and his greatest adventure. That was the way he would always think of her. Kissing her softly, he said, "Very much so. Sometimes it's so strong that it hurts."

She looked up at him in confusion. His words were at odds with his actions. Here he was proclaiming his love for someone else and yet he was tenderly caressing her face and softly kissing her, making her wish for things she used to scorn.

"You'll remember one day," he said so quietly she wasn't sure whether he had really said it or if she had imagined it. Before she could ask what he meant, there was a rustling in the bushes nearby. 

"Seems like our brazen friends have found their courage again. We better get going . . ." he told her ruefully. He grabbed her hand tightly and they hurried away in the direction of the treehouse. As they made their escape, Roxton was lost in a distant memory . . . that of a young girl playing on the fairy rings near his childhood home and of how he, in typical boyhood style, snuck up on her causing her to drop a rather mannish looking hat and run into the woods. 

He had searched for her for a few hours before finally taking the hat home with him. Since then, it had become his good luck charm . . . a reminder of his childhood and home and of a girl who had ignited his imagination and haunted his dreams.

__

She'll remember someday . . .

* This is the last story I'll be posting on ff.net. From now on, all my new stories will be sent directly to www.tlwfix.com. It's a great site with stories from many talented writers and I encourage everyone to visit it as soon and as often as possible!


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